Shadows At Sunset
Authors: Anne Stuart
Jilly opened her eyes and blinked, startled by the dimness of the room. It was late, the sky outside the broad expanse of windows was settling into an early autumn night, and the man watching her was blocking the door, consumed in shadows.
The hushed activity of Meyer Enterprises had stilled. It was very late, and she was alone with a stranger. If she had any sense at all she'd be scared to death.
“Are you going to hover there?” she asked in a tart voice, forcing herself to take her time in getting off the sofa.
He flicked on the light, and she blinked, momentarily disoriented after the shadowy dimness of the room. “I'm sorry I kept you so long.”
“I wasn't waiting to see you. I don't even know who you are. I was waiting to see Jackson.”
He stepped into the room, and his smile was deprecating, charming and completely false. “Your father asked me to handle it, Jillian. I'mâ”
“Coltrane,” she supplied flatly. “I should have guessed.”
“Why?”
“My brother told me all about you.”
“Nothing flattering, I'm sure,” he said lightly.
ANNE STUART
and MIRA Books
THE WIDOW
ANNE STUART
First, I have to send huge thanks to my Genie sisters, Teresa Hill, Christie Ridgway and Barbara Samuel. They are goddesses extraordinaire, and really helped me jump-start this.
And thanks to Jackson Norton for letting me use his name. He's the only Jackson I know, and he really is a most excellent young man, nothing at all like the wicked Jackson in this book.
And as always, for Richie and Kate and Timmy, for making me work when I'd rather play with them.
From:
Hollywood Haunts,
Hartsfield Books, 1974
One of the most interesting houses in Hollywood is the famous La Casa de SombrasâHouse of Shadows. Built by the Greene brothers in 1928, La Casa is a perfect example of Spanish Colonial revival mixed with Mediterranean and Muslim influences. The once lavishly landscaped grounds are extensive, though recently the estate has fallen into disrepair and most likely will be razed.
La Casa de Sombras was the site of an infamous murder-suicide pact in the early 1950s. Fading film star Brenda de Lorillard shot her married lover, director Ted Hughes, before turning the gun on herself. Though a trail of blood led through the ornate house, both bodies were found in the lavish master bedroom. In the ensuing decades their ghosts have been spotted, at times arguing, at other times dancing on the terrace by moonlight, and occasionally, to the embarrassment of certain well-known Hollywood Realtors, in flagrante delicto on the large banquet table. Mystery still shrouds the reason for the murder-suicide.
The house was purchased by Meyer Enterprises and remained empty until the mid 1960s, when its grand elegance was tarnished after it was turned into a hippie crash pad for some of Hollywood's notorious young actors and musicians. In recent years efforts had been made to restore the Grand Old Lady by the present owners, but like much of Hollywood's architectural history, its days are most likely numbered. One can only wonder where the ghosts will go, once the baroque mansion is demolished.
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B
renda de Lorillard, star of stage, screen, tabloids and nightmares, stretched her lithe body with a little catlike gesture, then made a moue at her beloved. “It's been more than fifteen years since they published that dreadful book, darling. I think they've forgotten all about us.”
Ted lowered his newspaper and glanced at her through his wire-rimmed glasses. When he first started wearing them she'd teased him unmercifully. After all, why in heaven's name should a ghost need reading glasses? They were dead, for heaven's sake. How could his eyesight possibly deteriorate? And where the hell had he found those glasses, anyway?
But he'd simply given her his usual, indulgent smile, and as always Brenda was lost, as she had been when she first saw him across the bright lights of a movie set, when he was a lowly director of photography and she was a grand star. She'd loved him ever since, no matter how illogical. She'd spent almost her entire life, thirty-threeâ¦erâ¦twenty-eight years focused on her career, and she'd put it all at risk for a mad infatuation that never faded, through career disaster, through time, through death itself.
“I wouldn't worry about it, honeybunch,” he said, taking a sip of his coffee. “The place is still standing, though just barely, and the house tours still stop by the gates occasionally.”
“It's the scandal tour,” Brenda said. “The same people who go visit Valentino's grave and the place where the Black Dahlia was found. Hardly befitting a gorgeous villa like La Casa de Sombras!” she said with a sniff. “And not very flattering to the two of us. I hate thinking our only legacy was our death.”
Ted set his glasses down beside the newspaper, turning to look at her out of those wonderful gray eyes of his. The newspaper was the
Los Angeles Times,
dated October 27, 1951, the day before they died. It never changed, and Ted read it every morning with the air of a man who was seeing it for the first time. As Brenda suspected he was.
“Honeybunch, anyone who sees your movies will remember you in all your glory. Especially the ones I directed,” he added with a mischievous grin. “Scandals fade, art remains.
Ars longa, vita brevis,
you know.”
“Stop quoting movie slogans at me,” she snapped. “I never worked for MGM and I'm glad of it.”
“It's a little older than thatâ¦.”
“Don't condescend to me, either, with your Ivy League education,” she interrupted him, glaring at her nails. She filed them every day, searching out little imperfections, and each day she found new ones. There was one major glory in that, though. She never aged. She missed seeing her reflection in the mirrors that filled every room of La Casa, but she knew from the look in Ted's eyes that she was still just as beautiful as she'd ever been. It was all she needed.
“They're not going to tear it down,” he said patiently. “It survived the sixties and those repulsive creatures who camped out here. It's survived years of neglect, and at least now we have someone who loves it as much as we do. She'll take care of the place. And of us.”
“But what if she doesn't?” Brenda cried. “What if they tear it down to make office buildings? We'll be left wandering the earth, lostâ¦.”
“Honeybunch,” he said, his voice warm and comforting, and she slid into his arms so naturally, finding the peace that was always there. “We'll make it through. Don't we always, you and me together?”
She looked at him, so dear, so sweet, so maddening, so eternal. “Always,” she said in a tremulous voice. She leaned down to press her carmine lips against his firm mouth, and slowly they began their inevitable fade-out.
J
illy Meyer never approached her father's office without some sort of absurd fantasy playing through her mind. The last time she'd come she hadn't been able to shake the image of a French aristocrat riding in a tumbrel to her untimely doom. The reality of that unpleasant meeting with her father had been about as grim, and she hadn't exchanged more than a handful of civil words to him in the eighteen months since.
And yet here she was again, only this time she wasn't the proud but noble martyr heading toward her fate. This time she was a warrior at the gates, ready to do battle with the forces of evil. She just had to persuade Charon to let her cross the river Styx so she could confront Satan himself.
Terrible of her to think of her father as the devil, she thought absently. And steely eyed Mrs. Afton didn't deserve to be called Charon, even if she guarded her employer with a diligence that was downright supernatural.
“Your father is a very busy man, Jilly,” Mrs. Afton said in her clipped, icy tones that had terrified Jilly when she was a child. “You should know better than to simply show up unannounced and expect he'll be able to drop everything to make time for you. Let me check his appointment book and see when I can work you inâ¦.”
“I'm not leaving until I see him.” Her voice didn't waver, a small blessing. Mrs. Afton demoralized her, and always had, but her father had ceased to wield any power over her, whatsoever. Jilly just simply hated confrontations, and she was anticipating a major one.
Mrs. Afton's thin lips compressed into a tight line of disapproval, but Jilly didn't move. She was still three doors away from the inner sanctum, the holy of holies, and those doors were electronically locked. If she tried to force her way in she'd only wind up looking foolish.
“You can wait in the gray reception room,” Mrs. Afton said finally, in no way a capitulation. “I'll see if he can spare a moment for you, but I'm not holding out much hope.”
Abandon all hope, ye who enter,
Jilly thought absently. “I don't mind waiting.” After all, it was past three. Ever since her father had married Melba he'd been less of a workaholic. Jilly didn't know whether it was jealousy or lust that kept Jackson Dean Meyer from abandoning his third wife as he'd done his first two, and she didn't want to think about it. Suffice it to say, Melba might have mellowed the old bastard a bit. Enough to get him to do what Jilly desperately needed him to do.
The gray sitting room had a tasteful array of magazines, most of them about cigar smoking, something that failed to captivate Jilly. The leather furniture was comfortable enough, and the windows looked out over the city of Los Angeles. On a clear day she could see the Hollywood Hills, perhaps even the spires of the house on Sunset. La Casa de Sombras, the House of Shadows. The decaying mausoleum of a mansion that was her unlikely home.
But today the air was thick with smog from the Valley, and the autumn haze enveloped Century City. She was trapped in a glass cocoon, air-conditioned, lifeless.
She'd dressed appropriately for a paternal confrontation, in black linen with beige accents. Her father was a stickler for neatly dressed women, and for once she'd been willing to play his games. Since the prize would be worth the effort.
However, if he was going to keep her waiting she was going to end up wrinkled. So be it. He'd have to listen to her, wrinkles and all.
She kicked off her shoes and curled up in the corner of the gray leather sofa, tugging her short skirt as far down her thighs as she could manage. She rummaged in her bag for a compact, but it was the Coach bag Melba had given her for Christmas last year, not the usual one she used, and she'd transferred only her wallet and identification. No compact, no makeup, only a rat-tail comb which would be useless with her thick hair. She closed the purse again, leaned back against the sofa and sighed, trying to get rid of some of the tension that was swamping her body.
It was ridiculous. She was almost thirty years old, a strong, independent, well-educated woman, and she was still afraid of her father. Over the last two decades she'd tried everything, from meditation to tranquilizers to psychotherapy to assertiveness training. Every time she thought she'd finally conquered her fear, Jackson Dean Meyer returned it to her on a silver platter. And here she was again, ready for another serving.
Codependency was a bitch. It was relatively easy to break free from her father's influence. He had little interest or affection for herâhe probably didn't notice when years went by without seeing her. Her father had made his choices and lived life the way he chose. She couldn't save him, even if he wanted to be saved.
But when it came to her sister and brother things were different. Although Rachel-Ann was probably beyond redemption. All Jilly could do was love her.
And Dean. It was for him that she'd come here, walked into the lion's den, ready to fight. For her brother or sister she'd do anything, including facing the tyrant who fathered them, though in Rachel-Ann's case the parenting was adoptive, not biological.
Dean was sitting home sulking, alone in the darkness of his room with his precious computer. Once more Jackson had managed to crush and belittle him; once more Dean had taken it, refusing to fight.
Jackson had removed Dean from his position in charge of legal affairs, replacing him with his new golden boy, a man by the name of Coltrane. Apparently Jackson trusted a stranger more than he trusted his own son. Dean had been given a token raise and no work, a complete humiliation by their ruthless father.
Jilly was ready to do battle in Dean's place. She couldn't sit back and watch her brother crawl into a computer, surrendering everything, in particular Jackson's trust, to an interloper.
To be fair, Dean allowed himself to be victimized by his father. He'd never made any attempt to find other workâthe moment he'd passed the bar exam he'd taken a high-paying job with his father's multimillion-dollar development firm, and he'd been ensconced there ever since, taking Jackson's abuse, doing his bidding, a perfect yes-man still looking for a father's approval and love. Jilly had given up on Jackson years ago. Dean had a harder time letting go.
Of course, he hadn't confronted Meyer about it. Instead he'd come home, drunk too much and wept on his little sister's shoulder. So here she was, trying to make things right for her brother's sake, knowing she stood a snowball's chance in L.A. of doing any such thing.
But for Dean's sake she had to try.
She leaned her head back against the sofa and closed her eyes. She should have gotten a manicure. Her grandmother always said no woman could feel insecure if she had a terrific manicure. Jilly doubted that plastic nails were much of a defense against her father's personality, but at this point she could have used all the weapons she could muster. Maybe she could leave, do as that gorgon Mrs. Afton suggested and make a formal appointment to see her father, and come back with a manicure and even a haircut. Meyer hated her long hair. She could return with something short and curly, like Meg Ryan had.
Except that she wasn't cute and pert, she was tall and strong with unfashionably long, straight, dark-brown hair, and nothing was going to turn her into a bundle of adorable femininity. Even a manicure wouldn't help.
Deep breaths, she told herself. Calm downâdon't let him get you worked up. Picture yourself going down a flight of stairs, slowly, letting your body relax. Ten, nine, eightâ¦
Someone was watching her. She'd fallen asleep while trying to meditate herself into a calmer state, but suddenly she'd become aware that someone was watching her. Maybe if she kept her eyes closed he'd go away. It couldn't be her fatherâhe wouldn't let a little thing like sleep interfere with his agenda.
It couldn't be Mrs. Aftonâshe'd have crossed the room and given Jilly a shake.
But hiding behind closed eyes was no way to deal with life.
Jilly opened her eyes and blinked, startled by the dimness of the room. It was late, the sky outside the broad expanse of windows was settling into an early autumn night, and the man watching her was blocking the door, consumed in shadows.
The hushed activity of Meyer Enterprises had stilled. It was very late, and she was alone with a stranger. If she had any sense at all she'd be scared to death.
She was a sensible woman. “Are you going to hover there?” she asked in a tart voice, forcing herself to take her time in getting off the sofa, resisting the impulse to pull her short skirt down over her long thighs. It would only draw his attention to it.
He flicked on the light, and she blinked, momentarily disoriented after the shadowy dimness of the room. “I'm sorry you were kept waiting so long. Mrs. Afton left a note on my desk that you were here to see me, but I didn't see it until I was ready to leave.”
“I wasn't waiting to see you. I don't even know who you are. I was waiting to see Jackson.”
He stepped into the room, and his half smile was deprecating, charming and completely false. “Your father asked me to handle it, Jillian. I'mâ”
“Coltrane,” she supplied flatly. “I should have guessed.”
“Why?”
“My brother told me all about you.”
“Nothing flattering, I'm sure,” he said lightly. His voice lacked the California softnessâshe couldn't quite place his accent, which meant he was probably from the Midwest. It was the only clue that he didn't belong in the sharklike environment where Jackson Meyer thrived.
“Depends how you define
flattering,
” Jilly said, wishing there was a way she could slip into her shoes without him noticing. He was already too tall as it wasâshe didn't need the added disadvantage of being barefoot.
What had Dean called him? A pretty boy with the soul of a snake? It seemed accurate. He was pretty, indeed, though he lacked the feminine softness that usually went with such extraordinary good looks. She couldn't tell whether he was gay or not, and she didn't particularly want to know. Either way, he was strictly off-limits. Anyone connected with her father was.
Still, he was astonishingly easy on the eyes. Everything about him was perfect: the slightly shaggy, sun-bleached hair, the Armani suit, the Egyptian cotton shirt unbuttoned at the collar, exposing his tanned neck. He had a long, strong-looking body, like a runner. His eyes were hooded, watching her, so she couldn't see either their color or their expression, but she had little doubt they were bright blue and frankly acquisitive.
She bent down and shoved her feet into her shoes, no longer caring that he was watching her, no longer caring that her silk shell probably showed too much cleavage. He wouldn't be the type to be excited by cleavage. “I appreciate that you finally got around to me,” she said, “but it's my father I wanted to see, not one of his minions.”
“I haven't been called a minion in years,” he said with a drawl.
She straightened to her full height. Still a lot shorter than he was, but her high-heeled shoes made her feel less vulnerable. “Where is he?”
“Gone, I'm afraid.”
“Then I'll just have to go over to the Bel Air houseâ¦.”
“Out of the country. He and Melba left for a short vacation in Mexico. I'm sorry but I have no way of getting in touch with him.”
“I can see you're devastated,” Jilly muttered, not caring if she sounded rude.
He didn't seem to care, either. His smile was cool, unnerving. “Look, I'm here to help. If you've got some sort of legal problem I'll be happy to look into it. A traffic ticket? Some problem with your ex-husband? The legal department can take care of thingsâ¦.”
“Can the legal department get rid of an interloper who stole my brother's job?”
His eyes opened at that, and she got a shock. They weren't blue at all, they were a dazzling emerald green. So green she figured he was probably wearing tinted contact lenses. And they weren't acquisitive. They were calmly assessing.
“Is that what your brother told you? That I stole his job?” The idea seemed to amuse him, and Jilly's anger burned even brighter.
“Not just his job. His father,” she said in a voice as cool as his.
“His father? Not yours? Jackson Meyer isn't a sentimental man. I don't think he gives a good goddamn about me or your brother. He just wants the job done well. I do it for him.”
“Do you?” she said in a silken voice. “And what else do you do for him?”
“Cold-blooded murder, hiding the bodies, anything he asks,” Coltrane responded offhandedly. “What are you doing for dinner?”
“I believe it,” Jilly muttered, and then his question sank in. “What did you say?”
“I said, what are you doing for dinner? It's after seven and I'm hungry, and you look like you have at least another hour left in you of berating me for ruining your baby brother's life. Let me take you to dinner and you can rip me apart in comfort.”
She was speechless at the sheer gall of the man. “I don't want to go out to dinner with you,” she said, flustered.
“We can order something in, then. Your father keeps a caterer on call twenty-four hours a day.”
